


Cocoa and Brain Bleach

by blcwriter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Language, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Stilinski Family Feels, The "You're Not Gay" Scene, gifsets on tumblr are evil, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:04:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he walks in on— well, he’s not sure what it is, except there’s tongue involved, groping and hands, but somehow both Stiles and Derek Hale have managed to wedge themselves into the closet in the pantry, so it’s not really clear who’s mauling whom since both boys are wedged up against the narrow shelving on either side and there’s lots of elbows smacking on woodwork and grunting and— good lord, is that grinding involved?</p><p>Because there's a <a href="http://lettersfromeleanorrigby.tumblr.com/post/45307068105/cocoa-and-brain-bleach-when-he-walks-in-on-well#notes">gifset</a> going around tumblr about the "You're Not Gay" Scene outside Jungle, and that scene gives me FEELS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocoa and Brain Bleach

When he walks in on— well, he’s not sure what it is, except there’s tongue involved, groping and hands, but somehow both Stiles and Derek Hale have managed to wedge themselves into the closet in the pantry, so it’s not really clear who’s mauling whom since both boys are wedged up against the narrow shelving on either side and there’s lots of elbows smacking on woodwork and grunting and— good lord, is that grinding involved?

Yes. There’s definitely grinding involved. Of the gay kind. Derek Hale, admittedly too fucking pretty for his own good, makes this noise like he’s very much enjoying … a thing Stiles does that John immediately deletes from his brain. That his son, in an Iron Man hoodie, John’s old academy track pants, and Hulk slippers (one of which is hiked in a display of flexibility right under Hales’ ass, when did Stiles get graceful?) just did while entwined with said Derek Hale.

Fuck. So much for taking his clues about teen sexuality from the dress codes on reality TV shows and DVRd Glee. Wait. Does this make John like Karofsky’s parents? Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity, the last year… fuck.

Well, and fuck again for good measure. It’s not like Stiles didn’t try to warn him. And it’s not like John hasn’t been ignoring the way Stiles seems to know all sorts of people who aren’t his crowd around town, rolled his eyes at them and made that “I’ll talk to you later face” that John knows all too well from time spent with Scott. In the past. And Scott, who has a girlfriend, is no longer around nearly as much. 

Shit. Fuck. John is no kind of detective. Instead, he’s catching glimpses of Stiles in bent-head conversation all over town, at the school, in the vet’s parking lot, with the oddest collection of people. Not just Hale— that Whittemore kid, that Reyes and Boyd couple who went missing too long and then just showed up and wouldn’t say squat about where they’d been, even as it was clear at the moles on Stiles’ face that some shit had gone down— Isaac Lahey, as well, and there’s a kid John doesn’t know what to do with, he redefines shifty in a potentially psychopath way, but the girls at the station still give John shit for questioning him in the first place. Something about puppy dog eyes or labradoodles or something.

Some of them give him shit, too, about Hale. Who didn’t murder his sister, and is now all up on his son. In John’s pantry. 

“Care to come out of the closet, boys?”

It’s some weird trick of the light that makes it seem like Hale’s eyes flash red as he not-at-all-subtly shoves Stiles behind him— which John supposes is sweet, not that they’re going to find much in the way of weapons from canned goods, not when John’s still wearing his holster.

“Move, damnit,” Stiles says, peevish and clearly shoving at the immovable wall of muscled— boyfriend?— who’s blocking the way. ”Dad’s not shooting anyone, not even you.” He sounds a little less than certain and— fuck. Is that what Stiles thinks, that John wouldn’t believe him, or allow it, or something? That John would honestly make good on his jokes about being the sheriff around Stiles’ future love interests? 

They were jokes.

Godfuckingdamnit. 

Maybe those leather-clad kids are Stiles’ and Hale’s LBGQT support group? Are there even any kids out at Beacon Hills High? 

If Angie was here, she would have killed John by now. That and made Hale some cocoa, because the kid somehow manages to pull off a combination of furiously protective, hyper-aggressive, and worried all at the same time. The underage thing is a problem. The age difference, too. Still, the part of him that still wants to pistol whip the shit out of those kids who laid a hand on his boy if he can ever get names is a little bit pleased that Hale cares enough to get between them, not just book it because John’s finally found out.

“You tried to tell me, I get it. Now get out of the damned pantry, so I can make your mother’s goddamned cocoa and we can sit down and pretend like I’m not an asshole and like you haven’t been running around the last year lying to me because I shut you down.”

Hale turns to share some look with Stiles— Stiles’ shrug, for once, doesn’t tell John a thing, except that whatever Hale’s asking Stiles with his eyebrows is…

“It’s more complicated than that,” Stiles says, still trading looks with Hale like they’ve got some complicated nonverbal language of pursed lips, shoulder grasps, and twitching eyebrows that excludes everyone else. 

“Fine. Just. Whatever it is, please, let’s talk about it at the table, or I’m never going to be able to go into the pantry again. I’m going to need brain bleach as it is.”

Hale tips his head like he’s listening for something other than the words coming out of John’s mouth. It’s a weird look— almost like one of the shepherds down at the station. Still, the look he shares with Stiles is— a little more calm, a little less like he’s ready to fight John for Stiles’ honor, Spartacus-style, with a can of chickpeas or whatever else he can grab— and the two of them nod at each other even as Stiles laughs, shaky, uncertain. 

“Cocoa, first, though.” 

The boys sit next to each other, and Hale reaches over to grab the back of Stiles’ neck even as Stiles flails his hand onto Hale’s knee. 

Right. 

Well, whatever it is they’ve got to tell him, it’s clear they’ve got some things settled between them. 

John shakes his head at his own idiocy, and heads into the pantry. ”Fluff or actual marshmallows?”

“Both,” Stiles says.

He keeps his curse to himself. A double-marshmallow cocoa conversation is not going to be good. There is going to be yelling. And hugging. And manly crying, no doubt, by the end. That’s what the extra sugar is for. 

He rolls his shoulders back, and pulls down the jar of sauce, the bag of candy, then sorts out the rest of the ingredients, taking his time and lining it all up on the counter as, out of the side of his vision, the two of them continue to level facial expressions at one another like gestures are going out of style. 

Whatever it is they’ve got to tell him, he’ll listen. It’s not like this is conversation is going to clear up all the weird shit on his case list, after all— it’ll just be clearing the air with his boy, that and easing whatever bad blood Hale feels toward him while assuring them both the gay thing is okay. Maybe a discussion of Stiles’ age, hence the “complicated,” Stiles mentioned, but really, what else could it be?


End file.
